Chapter 23 Marcellious
Marcellious
Idon’t know how, but I somehow begged off the masquerade, telling Balthazar I was unwell.
He barely spared me a glance.
“Stay then,” he said, his voice dripping with indifference. “See if I care.”
Then, right before me, he shed his clothes with fluid ease, standing bare, unashamed.
I forced myself not to look, but ignoring his body’s chiseled, brutal perfection was impossible—the impossibly sculpted muscles, the sheer power he exuded, a body carved for war, dominance, and destruction.
Then, he donned his masquerade attire, fastening each piece into place, the mask the final touch.
The moment it settled over his face, his presence darkened.
A malevolent force radiated from behind that mask, thick and choking, making my stomach lurch.
I wanted to fall to my knees and retch, to scrape the very feeling of him off my skin—but I held firm, forcing my disgust to feed the lie of my supposed illness.
Now, alone in his silent, looming house, I combed through his possessions, meticulously replacing each item I disturbed—rearranging books, shifting trinkets, lifting artifacts with care.
But with every passing minute, my frustration grew.
Balthazar had been gone for hours, and I still hadn’t found his dagger.
This was perhaps my only chance, and I was coming up empty.
Eventually, defeated and drained, I slumped onto the bed in one of his cold, unwelcoming guest rooms.
The walls were clad in black and silver-striped wallpaper, stark and lifeless. The ebony granite flooring gleamed beneath the dim candlelight, its polished surface as cold as a tombstone. Even the bed coverings—a dark, uninviting gray—felt more suited for a crypt than a place of rest.
It was telling—this wasn’t a room for welcoming guests.
Because Balthazar had no friends.
Only supplicants.
The demon had no use for company, no need for warmth.
He probably hadn’t set foot in this room in centuries, if ever.
My gaze drifted across the space, settling on a peculiar box perched high on a dust-laden bookshelf, nestled among rows of ancient, leather-bound tomes.
One title caught my eye.
Defunctis Corporibus Conservandis.
A shiver crept down my spine as the translation drifted through my mind.
“On the Preservation of Dead Bodies.”
Preserving dead bodies.
Why the hell would Balthazar need to preserve them?
My stomach churned, but I pushed it aside and crossed to the iron box, plucking it from its place on the shelf. It was heavy, the metal biting into my palms. I turned it over, inspecting every inch, my fingers tracing the rough, corroded surface.
The box was crafted from dull iron, its exterior coated in a brittle layer of rust that flaked away at the slightest touch. Its lid was sealed shut, secured by lock and key, or perhaps something far worse.
A spell.
Maybe both.
The metal rings encircling the chest were cold as death, tingling against my fingertips with something that felt... wrong. There was no telling what lay inside—only that it was valuable enough to warrant such meticulous safeguards.
While I knew nothing about demonic spellbinding, I did know how to pick a lock.
I had been a thief once.
The Emperor Severus had personally employed my services to break into the homes of his enemies—so this? A rusted iron box? It was child’s play.
Tucking it under my arm, I descended the stairs, stepping into Balthazar’s cavernous front room.
The air hung thick with the scent of burnt cedar and aged leather, the space dimly lit by dying embers in the hearth of an ornate marble fireplace.
I set the box onto a wide, obsidian table in front of Balthazar’s overstuffed, gold-accented sofa, then moved toward the kitchen.
There, I rummaged through the drawers until I found what I needed—a sharp knife and a pewter fork, its two long, pointed tines perfect for my task.
Returning to the sofa, I sat, positioning myself over the box, tools in hand.
With careful precision, I wedged the knife into the lock, twisting and prodding, using the fork’s tines to manipulate the inner mechanisms.
Minutes crawled by.
Then—
A satisfying snap rang through the silent room.
“Victory!” I breathed.
Heart hammering, I pried open the lid.
And there it was.
Balthazar’s sacred dagger.
It lay inside, gleaming like a predatory thing, its wicked blade glistening in the dim firelight. The very sight of it sent a pulse of unease through me—the kind of unease that whispered of danger, traps, and curses woven deep into the metal itself.
I hesitated.
What if it’s bonded to its owner?
What if it attempts to harm me?
The thoughts crawled through my mind, leaving an icy trail.
I exhaled sharply, shaking off the ridiculous notion.
I am not afraid of a damned knife.
Jaw tightening, I reached out, fingers brushing over the hilt.
Nothing happened.
No jolt of dark energy, searing pain, or invisible force trying to stop me.
Only exhilaration.
A triumphant rush flooded my veins as I curled my fingers around the dagger’s smooth, bone-white handle and lifted it from its prison.
I had done it.
I had found the bastard’s blade.
And Balthazar?
He would never see it coming.
Sliding the dagger into the sheath at my waist, I forced it next to my knife, the cold steel pressing against my skin like a silent promise.
I needed to get out. Now.
Hurrying back upstairs, I returned the box to its exact position on the shelf, every movement calculated precisely. If luck were on my side, it would be a while before Balthazar realized his sacred dagger was missing—and by then, I would be long gone.
The only thing on my mind was getting to Malik’s and restoring my life.
I turned for the stairs—
And then—
The front door exploded open.
Fuck.
He was back.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I shrank into the shadows, pressing myself against the upper banister, eyes locked on the unfolding scene below.
Balthazar strode inside, hauling a younger man by the ear and shoving him onto the sofa I had just vacated.
I held my breath.
The younger man winced, rubbing his ear. Blood smeared his face and arms, his dark clothing torn and ragged as if he had barely survived a fight.
Balthazar grabbed the man’s wrist, his lips muttering a strange incantation. His voice was thick with something ancient. The air vibrated, and the walls seemed to shudder as if recoiling from his power.
Then—silence.
When Balthazar released him, the young man stared in awe at his arm, flexing his fingers like he couldn’t believe what he saw.
Then, his voice broke with emotion.
“Dad, you saved me. And now you’ve healed me! Thank you!” His voice cracked. “All these years, I thought you didn’t care—”
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” Balthazar roared, the walls shaking with the force of his fury.
I flinched, instinctively pressing deeper into the shadows.
“You are the biggest imbecile, but I will always care for you. It’s my job.”
His job.
The words echoed, ringing with an unnatural importance.
Before I could even process that revelation, Balthazar suddenly threw back his head and bellowed—
“Marcellious! Get down here!”
A wave of panic crashed through me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I had to get out.
If he caught me with his dagger, I was already dead.
I inched backward, retreating down the hallway, my muscles coiled for flight.
“Marcellious!” Balthazar’s voice was a thunderclap, shaking the very foundations of the house.
As I moved forward, I forced my footsteps to be loud, ensuring they echoed off the walls.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
I ruffled my hair, yanking one end of my shirt from my waistband, trying to appear like I’d been wrenched from sleep.
Then, with deliberate clumsiness, I stomped down the stairs, each step louder than necessary, my body language screaming annoyance at being disturbed.
When I reached the bottom, I faked a massive yawn, stretching my arms as if I could barely keep my eyes open.
“What is it, my lord?” I drawled.
Balthazar said nothing.
He only glared, his eyes black pits of fury.
I ignored the growing weight of his silence, gazing at the young man beside him. I cocked my head, letting my lip curl in mock amusement.
“And who’s this?” I asked, gesturing toward him. “Is this the pathetic son you’ve occasionally mentioned?”
I barely saw Balthazar move before his hand was around my throat.
One second, I was standing—
The next, my back hit the wall, my windpipe caged in his vice-like grip.
“You son of a bitch,” he snarled. “Don’t you ever speak to my offspring that way?”
His fingers tightened, cutting off my airflow.
I gasped, my vision tilting.
“I’m—sorry—master,” I managed to choke out, my hands clawing at his wrist, trying to loosen his unrelenting grip.
His nostrils flared, his eyes flashing crimson. “You’ve failed me.”
Then, without warning, he threw me backward.
I crashed onto the couch beside his son, my right side fully exposed—the side where his sacred dagger was strapped to my waist.
Shit.
I righted myself instantly, shifting my body just enough to conceal the hilt, forcing my hands to remain steady despite the roaring panic in my chest.
Balthazar took a menacing step forward.
“You could have saved me,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
A flicker of genuine confusion cut through my panic.
“Saved you?” I rasped, rubbing at my aching neck. “Saved you from what?”
Balthazar didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned, his focus shifting to the young man still cowering on the couch.
“How did you get here, Tristan?”
His voice was calm now, far more terrifying than his rage.
Tristan flinched, curling his arms and knees inward as if he could shrink into himself.
“I—I came with Roman Alexander,” Tristan stammered.
Silence slammed into the room, heavy and unnatural, thick as smoke before an explosion.
“Roman?” The demon’s voice was low, almost disbelieving, quiet before the storm. “He lives?”
His hand shot out, snatching a porcelain vase from the table beside the sofa—
And hurling it across the room.